You were a mother. Or... you were. You were an elf, with majestic, long, blond, smooth, and wavy hair, pale skin, and a long white dress with beautiful sleeves.

You were the mother of a boy, an elf, a prince, because you were a queen. He loved adventures, he had many friends: dwarves, hobbits, elves. He was attached to his bow, oh how he adored it, he would draw lines on his bow with his fingers whenever he was bored.

His father, your husband, the King, was unfortunately dead. You were already suffering enough from your husband's grief, but who would die next? Your son. And that... that broke you so much, so much. You didn't know what to do anymore.

Before your son died in battle, you had created a statue for him, a very beautiful statue, known to your son's friends, and to you. Every day, you went to his statue, weeping your heart out, praying he would return, knowing he wouldn't.

Today was the same routine. You went to Mirkwood Forest, where your son's statue stood. You collapsed to your knees before the statue and wept like a queen should, weeping alone and silently.

Your silent cries was interrupted by the crack of a stick. You stopped crying and stood up, seeing a tall man with long, straight blond hair. Thranduil Greenleaf. The only thing you knew about him was that he was the King of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood.

He looked at you, confused but stoic, wanting to know why a queen would cry before a statue of a young man.

"Who is that?"

Thranduil asked you, looking at the statue, and he approached you, his eyes never leaving the statue, he was a bit interested.